The Archaeologist and the Orphan
by The Mocking J
Summary: Following the death of his girlfriend in an explosion, Hershel Layton feels as if everything significant in his life has been ripped away from him. Loosing his parents to the same incident, Clive is orphaned and taken into care. Both Clive and Layton are left grieving, both of them yearn for a family to call their own. What happens when the professor adopts the forlorn boy? AU.
1. Chapter 1

**The Archaeologist and the Orphan**

Following the death of his girlfriend in an explosion, a twenty- seven- year- old Professor Hershel Layton feels as if everything significant in his life has been ripped away from him. After loosing his parents to the same incident, ten- year- old Clive is orphaned and taken into care. Both Clive and Layton are left grieving, both of them yearn for a family to call their own. What happens when the professor visits the orphanage and adopts the forlorn boy? AU.

* * *

**Chapter One**

The bronze- haired boy bolted out of his sleep. He clawed at the itchy orange blanket that stank of stale wee no matter how many times it was washed. The offending cover removed, his brown eyes darted to the clock nailed against a wall with peeling Thomas the Tank Engine paper. _6:30. _He sighed shakily and waited for his pounding pulse to settle.

Snores ensued from three corners of the room, alerting the boy that the other occupants had yet to rouse themselves. The satin blue curtains were still closed, casting the dorm into dimness, accented by the illumination from a star shaped nightlight beside the door. He could hear the punctual London morning traffic outside but there was presently no movement anywhere in the house. Mrs Medley's alarm clock had failed to go off, just as he'd planned...

It was now or never.

The boy crawled out from under the duvet- grabbing his navy green cap off the side drawers as he went- his shoes muffled by the beige carpet below. He hoisted a rucksack over his shoulder, having hidden it under the covers last night, and put his cap on before tiptoeing towards the door.

However, he'd only made it halfway across the room when he realized something vital was missing. _Mum and Dad! _He thought suddenly. _How could I forget them_? He scampered back to check beneath his mattress. _It's not here! I'm sure I hid it under here...! _Panic surged through him; he dropped the mattress on the bed frame with a clatter, waking one of his roommates.

...This just so happened to be his least favourite roommate.

"Going somewhere, Clive?" an obnoxious voice called.

Clive clenched his teeth and whirled to see a freckle-faced lad with short brown hair scowling at him from the bed closest to the door. Jamie Pratter— Clive's sworn nemesis since Day One at St Obeon's Orphanage.

_Upon arriving at the orphanage, Mrs Medley had shown Clive to his new dorm and introduced him to the three other boys he would be sharing with: Reece, Tommy and Jamie (the evil Clive was unaware of at the time). But Clive didn't want to share; as an only child he'd never had siblings to share anything with before. Unaware this gripe had set off Clive's sour mood, Mrs Medley smiled and said she would let him settle in and get to know the others. The moment the matron had left the room, Jamie demanded tactlessly to the newbie: _

"_So, what are you in here for?"_

_Clive had only shrugged in reply and went over to the free bed— his bed now. He started unpacking his small bag of keepsakes (some of the few things they had been able to salvage from his old apartment) into the small bedside chest of draws. _

"_You can tell us. We won't care." Jamie waved a casual hand at Reece, a silent kid with black bangs blocking his eyes. "Reece's dad left him in the house on his own for a whole week once. And Tommy..." He pointed at the pudgy boy with curly blonde hair "His mum had quite the nasty temper— show him your scar, Tom!"_

"_I don't want to see his scar," Clive muttered, pulling an object from his rucksack. It was a slightly faded photograph in a plain brown rectangular frame. He tenderly stroked his thumb across two figures in the picture before placing the frame on top of the drawers where he could look at them every night. _

_Jamie persisted "Where are you from? Have you got any family?" When he was met with more silence, he approached Clive. "Come on, if we're going to be friends you might as well tell us a bit about yourself." Noticing the photo over Clive's shoulder, Jamie had then reached for the frame. "Are these your parents...?"_

"_DON'T TOUCH THEM!"_

_There was a pained yelp. Mrs Medley rushed back into the room. Jamie wailed that Clive had hit him for no apparent reason._

Now, Clive realized battering Jamie that day had been a big mistake. Not only had Mrs Medley been furious with him (Clive refused to explain why he had lashed out or to apologise) but he had also gained an enemy. In the months that followed, Jamie had made his stay at St Obeon's very unwelcome; ratting Clive out, stealing or breaking his few belongings, putting cheese sauce in his shoes...

Clive shifted, attempting to conceal his bag from the other boy's view. He retorted "It's none of your business where I'm going."

"But it's probably Mrs Medley's business..." said Jamie.

Clive's eyes narrowed. "You wouldn't."

"I would," Jamie smirked. He took a deep breath and shrieked; a warning signal that emanated through the two storey building, making Clive wince. _"MRS MEDLEEEEY!"_

Footsteps thundered across the landing and the door flew open. The doorway— and Clive's escape route— was filled with the plump form of Mrs Medley. The matron was a wrinkled middle aged woman who had always reminded Clive of a mother elephant. Mostly, she was gentle and doting and possessed an astonishing memory. But you did _not_ want to get on the wrong side of her temper. (Plenty of times Clive had been sent to the Naughty Step after a scolding.)

"Good heavens, boys, is everything alright?" The bright ceiling light came on; Clive was like a deer caught in the headlights. Mrs Medley pushed her spectacles up her nose, her worried grey eyes checking the four children were safe. Jamie was sitting smugly up in bed, Tommy and Reece had just been jolted awake by the screaming, as for Clive...

"Clive's trying to run away again!" Jamie tattled instantly, pointing a bony finger at the accused. There was nothing Clive could really say against these claims, unless he usually wore his shoes, coat and rucksack to bed.

"Is that what all the commotion was about? Honestly, Jamie, I thought you were being attacked," Mrs Medley shook her head with a weary sigh. Clive's gaze fell to the floor as she looked at him questioningly. "May I please see that bag you're carrying, Clive?"

With the wordless guilt of a shop lifter, Clive tossed his pack of supplies over to her. Mrs Medley opened the rucksack and peered inside, frowning at its contents. "Did you take all of this food from the kitchen cupboard, Clive?" _Technically only the pack of ginger biscuits came from the cupboard _Clive thought shrewdly. The other snacks had been swiped from the table during meal times; slices of bread, fruit, cheese, crackers, crisps etc. By now they'd probably gone stale or started to rot.

Jamie chanted "Yes he did, yes he did."

"I didn't ask you, Jamie," Mrs Medley hushed him. The woman waited for Clive's explanation, but upon receiving none, she sighed in disappointment. "Tell me after breakfast," she said softly. She hoped Clive would be more communicative when the other children were out of earshot. On her way out of the room with the rucksack, Mrs Medley murmured knowingly "How strange, either my alarm clock has stopped working or the one in this room is fast."

Clive winced. _Had she noticed he'd broken her clock yesterday evening? _Even after all his careful preparation, he'd been caught out. Of course, he would've had to get past the locks on the front door, and he wouldn't have left until he'd found his parents, but still... It was all Jamie's fault.

When Mrs Medley had gone downstairs, Clive shot a glare at the snitch before resuming his frantic search.

"Looking for something?"

Clive glanced up from the drawers to see Jamie grinning at him like the Cheshire cat. In his hand was the photo of Clive's mother and father. Clive's eyes widened and he growled "Give it back!"

Recognising the signs that another argument was about to break out between the two, Tommy's fair head dived under the duvet cover. (_He couldn't bear to watch!)_

Jamie cooed "Awww, Clivey's missing his mummy and daddy."

"I _mean_ it, Jamie!"

"You'll have to come and get it, Clivey— _Hey!_" Interrupting Jamie's taunts, Reece had quietly gotten out of bed and plucked the picture frame from his fingers.

The dark haired boy shuffled across the dorm and passed the photo to its rightful owner. "Here," Reece whispered. Clive snatched the photo without thanking Reece, hugging it tightly against his chest.

"I bet they don't miss you," Jamie was sneering at Clive now "Wherever they are. Maybe they're dead."

"At least he _knew_ his parents," Reece muttered, just loud enough for Jamie to hear and cause his face to redden.

In some ways, Clive was jealous of Jamie (and secretly, Jamie envied him as well). A while ago, Tommy had informed him that Jamie had been on his own since he was born. Jamie had never met his parents; therefore he couldn't miss something that he'd never had.

Parents were meant to raise their children; love you come what may, protect you, and teach you the morals of life. But Clive didn't just need someone to raise him.

He needed to be saved.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter**** 2**

A benevolent English gentleman gradually stirred. His eyes- twin dark orbs filled with curiosity, kindness obscuring hints of anguish, and a keen intelligence beyond his years- worked themselves open, surveying his surroundings. He was in a plain room with pale lavender walls (a calming colour) and shiny brown rubber flooring; to his right, there was a window framed by green floral curtains, replenishing morning light streamed through the glass. A vase of vibrant pansies had been placed on the windowsill. The flowers were perfume scented, mixing with the abundant odour of antiseptics. However, to his nostrils the smell was slightly off. His senses felt dull, as if he hadn't used them for a long time. Eventually, he noticed the red tubes extending from his arm to an IV drip filled with fluids.

_I'm in a hospital room _the young man finally discerned.

He tried to sit erect against the plush white pillows of his bed. This was a mistake, for as soon as he moved a machine started beeping and his temples pounded with a headache. There were frantic footsteps as a nurse— a purple haired fellow dressed in scrubs— rushed into the room.

"You're awake," the nurse gasped. He ran over to check the readings on some of the machines, assessing the convalescent's condition. When his patient attempted to sit up further, as if to politely greet him, the nurse fretted, "No, no, don't strain yourself! Here, let me help you." The nurse lifted the bed, propping him up.

"W... w... where... W-what...?" The invalid male struggled to form a query.

"You're in safe hands at Gressenheller Hospital," the nurse chattered, inspecting the IV drip. "It's so wonderful to see you responsive! You regained consciousness several times before, but you were always lethargic due to the strong aesthetics we needed to administer— you were in pretty bad shape."

The young man winced as he became aware of the still- healing bruises blossoming across his body. "H...how... long...?"

"How long have you been here? Round about a month."

_A month! _Claire must have been sick with apprehension. He hated to make her worry. As his girlfriend crossed his thoughts, he immediately pictured the gift she had given him for his becoming an archaeology professor at Gressenheller University (he hoped Dean Delmona would pardon his premature absence). His gaze drifted to the bedside table – and there it was. The silk top hat. She had been so happy when he had worn it; that was why he had promised never to remove the hat after... after...

The door swung open and in marched a lady with dark braided hair whom he presumed was a doctor. Two extremely anxious parents trailed behind her. (However, no one else followed them.)

"Nathan, please refrain from smothering the patient," the doctor told the nurse in a bored tone.

Rubbing his head sheepishly, Nathan backed away from said patient. "Uh... Of course, sorry, Dr Ahmad."

"Hershel!" Lucille Layton gave a relieved cry at the sight of her son, awake at last, and flung herself at the bed. There were pained protests from Hershel's limbs as she hugged him. It was wonderfully comforting to see his parents; however, he couldn't help grimacing.

"Ma... Pa..." Hershel croaked as his father also came to his bedside "What are you doing here?"

After exchanging a look with the doctor, Roland Layton explained, solemnly but gently "We came to the hospital immediately when we heard you had been viciously assaulted."

"A_..._Assaulted?"_ Why was I assaulted? _The young professor cast his foggy mind back. He had been attacked whilst he was searching for answers... _Answers to what exactly? _Hershel swallowed past the thick lump that had suddenly formed in his throat. "Please, tell me... why Claire isn't in here. Is she waiting outside?"

His parents turned to Dr Ahmad again, silently asking permission. Dr Ahmad nodded and muttered "You may remind him of the loss. It shouldn't be too much of a shock."

"Oh, Hershel dear, I'm so sorry..." Mrs Layton covered her mouth; she looked ready to burst into tears. "Claire is... She's no longer with us. You called your father and I on that terrible day. Don't you remember?"

Hershel _did _remember.

_Sirens screamed. The burning remains of the rubble invaded his lungs. People dashed back and forth, trying to douse the flames. In his arms he held a despairing child who had tried to find his parents in the blazing remnants of an apartment. They seemed to have been lost in the catastrophe, just like her._

_When the panic died down, he placed the orphaned child into the protection of the authorities. He only wished he could do more for the poor boy. However, at this moment his own grief was overwhelming... _

_Claire was gone. _

The awful memory came to Hershel, cold and piercing as if he had been drenched in ice water. The hospital machines went wild with beeping as the despair flooded back to him. He gripped his mother's hand, unable to repress a choked sob. _"A gentleman never makes a scene,"_ Claire probably would have told him. What he would give to hear her voice again. 

He had fully mourned for Claire— _still_ mourned— but then he'd started investigating the shady circumstances of her death. This had led to him being assailed by thugs; someone obviously didn't want him accessing the information. Nevertheless, Hershel Layton refused to put her demise aside until he had every last fact about what had truly happened.

"W-when might I be able to leave, madam?" Hershel inquired to Dr Ahmad after several moments, trying to regain his composure.

The woman answered matter- of- factually "Sir, you have been in a coma for a month due to critical injuries. I doubt you'll be going anywhere anytime soon."

"With all due respect Doctor," his father said "Hershel is a strong lad. He has suffered before... and learned to cope for the most part."

The doctor shrugged "We will see I suppose."

"I'll give him a week," Nathan betted with a beaming smile.

* * *

In the astonishingly short period of a week, Hershel Layton was indeed discharged from Gressenheller Hospital. Albeit, he rather resembled an Egyptian mummy with the bandages that covered his head, chest and arms; but he had made a swift recovery. After sincerely thanking the medical workers for all they had done to help, Mr and Mrs Layton drove their son safely back home. Hershel's mother still fretted over him like a hen (she hadn't been this worried since they had left Stansbury years ago), despite the young man's insistence that there was no need for so much concern.

"Of course there's need for concern," Lucille lamented "You've just come out of _hospital!"_

The family had pulled up outside Hershel's flat. Hershel noted that the hedges above the white wall were looking a little overgrown. Whenever Claire stayed over, she had been the one to keep his home life organised. _"You always forget to clean after yourself,"_ Claire would often tease him good naturedly_ "That's not very becoming of a true gentleman, is it Hershel?" _

"The doctor said he would be fine, Lucille," Roland assured his wife for the hundredth time as they exited the car. "All Hershel needs to do now is get some rest—" He suddenly broke off. The three had noticed the smashed windows and the front door hanging from its hinges. They pushed past the iron gate, rushing inside. A shocking sight awaited them:

Chairs and tables overturned. Pottery, maps and other artefacts destroyed. Dented picture frames knocked off the walls. Pages carelessly ripped from books. Cupboards, shelves and drawers ravaged; their contents strewn over the floor.

Hershel's flat had been completely ransacked.

The archaeologist instantly knew the reason why. He suspected that the ones responsible were the same ruffians who had mugged him a month earlier. After a thorough search of his home, Hershel conceded that most of the information he had gathered on the explosion at the Institute of Polydimensional Physics, the information surrounding Claire's death, had been taken.

"This is terrible," Mrs Layton hopped around the desolated front room in a panic. "Look at the furniture— and,_ oh_, Hershel, some of your work is ruined as well! Who would _do_ such a thing? We must contact the police immediately...!"

Meanwhile, Roland appraised the damages, rubbing his snowy beard anxiously. "I'm not sure if that would be wise... Lucille, would you come out and help me unload Hershel's things from car?"

Hershel couldn't recall having any of his belongings at the hospital; perhaps his memory was still hazy. He would have offered to help his parents, but he had noticed there was a large pile of unopened letters on the doormat, posted while he was in the intensive care unit. He couldn't find his letter opener through the shambles so he opened them by hand. One was from his mentor, Dr Shrader, inquiring about his health. The next was from Dean Delmona who insisted that the young professor should take as much time as he needed to recover from his injuries, and added Gressenheller was missing him. Finally, there was a message written by Brenda, the wife of Hershel's good university friend, Clark Triton. She apologised that Clark hadn't been able to write himself because their lives had been very hectic recently with the move out of London. Brenda also informed him that Luke, Clark's three year old son, was developing quite the appetite along with a fondness for animals.

For the first time in over a month, Hershel felt a true smile tug at his lips. Despite the current chaos in his personal life, it was reassuring to hear that Clark's family was doing well. Although Hershel would never experience such a thing with Claire now, he still had relatives and friends who deeply cared for him.

Some weren't so fortunate. It created an ache in his chest, knowing that everyday there were people suffering.

Once again, Hershel's thoughts strayed to the poor boy who had lost his parents during the explosion at the Institute. Did the child have any other family? If not, a police officer at the scene had informed him, the boy would probably be taken into care. He wondered how the boy was coping, and if he had been assigned a suitable guardian yet. How curious— since he had prevented the boy from throwing his life away, Layton felt as if he was responsible for the child somehow. (Perhaps it was his need to fulfil the gentleman reputation that Claire had always considered him to have.) _What had become of the boy? Where was he now? _And, most importantly,_ was he safe? _The professor hoped he could find out.

Though Hershel Layton wasn't aware of it, this was one of those pivotal decisions that would not only change a life, but the course of history as well.

* * *

_**[[I lied before; this is the second chapter from the professor's perspective. **_

_**At first I couldn't decide how old Clive should be. In the memory pictures from Lost Future, I think Young Clive looks about Luke's age in Last Spectre. And I know in "Future Luke" was meant to be 10 years older than Little Luke, but come on, I don't think Clive looks 23 in LF. So, I've decided Young Clive will be **__**10 **__**around the time of Claire's death. This would make him **__**20 **__**during LF. **_

_**Everyone ok with that? Tough, 'cause I'm sticking with it :p**_

_**I may be rambling on here, but Nathan and Dr Ahmad- two lovely OCs- have a daughter that appears in LF. Any idea what her name is?**_

_** J**__**amie, however (Clive's "nemesis" from the first chapter), is not an OC. He'll be making a reappearance later.**_

_**Oh, and try to guess why Layton's dad was getting worried back there.**_

* * *

_**[[09/05/13: little-luke helpfully pointed out that Layton's reaction was very calm considering he just remembered Claire is dead. Made a quick edit here.]] **_


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

"_Look! Look! There's someone outside!" _

The eager children squashed their noses against the sitting room window, each pining to catch a glimpse of the tall red car that had just pulled up outside the orphanage gates.

A week had passed since Clive's attempted (and failed) bid for freedom. Mrs Medley had given Clive a stern talking to; she "understood" _(yeah, right)_ he was struggling to adjust but she promised arrangements were being made for him; all he needed was patience. The problem was that Clive didn't think he could take another day in this place. True, it was satisfying that Jamie had been seriously admonished for his "provocative behaviour". However, subsequently Jamie had only gone out of his way to irk Clive even more behind the matron's back.

Jamie was currently at the front of the huddle— having shoved past two younger girls to claim a better view. "He's probably an inspector or something," Jamie said as he squinted through the glass. "What's up with that big hat anyway...?"

Clive had been sitting reclusively away from his fellow orphans, reading a dog- eared comic he'd found wedged between the arm of the settee. The story didn't focus on real life events like the news, but the colourful plot about an evil robot alien invasion amused him. That moment Jamie mentioned "_big hat_", however, it immediately struck a chord within Clive. His attention hooked, Clive wriggled his way through the crowd to observe this visitor.

_It couldn't be... That unmistakable top hat... the dark jacket... _

Clive's contemplation was broken by the chimes of the ancient doorbell. He listened for Mrs Medley's laden footfall across the hall carpet. When she opened the front door to greet the newcomer, Clive dashed out of the sitting room and down the corridor. He reached Mrs Medley's office, checking none of the other staff members were on patrol. Before he could sneak inside, a tentative voice whispered:

"W-what are you doing? We're not allowed in Mrs Medley's room unless she's with us."

"Tommy," Clive hissed, turning to the boy who had waddled up behind him "Get lost; you'll give away my position!" "

Tommy cocked his head to the side in concern. "W-why...?"

"I need to hear what that guy who's just arrived says to Mrs Medley— I have to find out something really important." When Tommy continued to blink at him blankly, Clive rushed "He might know about my parents."

"Oh..." Tommy eventually nodded, smiling. (Clive rarely mentioned his mum and dad, but Tommy was certain they'd meant a lot to him.) "I get it. Please, let me help you. I- I can distract Mrs Medley for a bit..."

"Fine," Clive agreed "Keep her busy while I look for a place to hide."

The office door was unlocked (Mrs Medley had obviously just popped out to let the visitor inside). Clive crept into the room, frantically hunting for a good spot to conceal himself.

The walls of the office were aligned with yellow sticky notes and posters; some listing the house rules, displaying the healthy food chart, or explaining what to do in the event of a fire. Various paper weights and ring binders covered the matron's orderly pine desk. There was a grey filing cabinet filled with private data concerning the history and condition of each resident at St Obeon's. Clive had raided the cabinet once before to see if his personal file contained any useful notes about his parents. Unfortunately, his search had been fruitless and Mrs Medley had caught him red handed. He didn't fancy being discovered a second time.

Voices right outside the office – he needed to move_, fast! _Clive dived underneath the desk just as the door opened. He quietly paid close attention to the familiar composed tone of the man in the top hat.

* * *

Professor Layton locked his automobile and gazed up at the faded red brick house. St Obeon's Orphanage was around an hour's drive from Gressenheller. The professor was still entitled to sick leave; the occasional ache argued that he needed it. Nevertheless, he had shocked Dean Delmona – and nearly given his mother a heart attack— when he had informed them he would be coming into work during the afternoon. This morning, however, he had a meeting to attend.

Several pairs of young eyes gawped at him as he approached the front door; like puppies in a pet shop window. He rang the bell and was welcomed by a stout, greying haired woman.

Hershel tipped his hat to her (he was steadily getting used to balancing it on his head). "Good day, Madam. My name is Hershel Layton. Might you be Mrs Medley, the matron of this establishment?"

"That is correct," Mrs Medley confirmed "Please do come in."

The air was engulfed with the excited chatter of children as this unusual man followed her inside; down a hallway where the carpet was riddled with cooking smells. They were stopped by a blonde haired boy who waved to them nervously.

"H-h-hi..."

"Hello there," Hershel returned with a smile.

The youngster dropped his hand and continued awkwardly. "Um... There's something I need to tell you, Mrs Medley."

"Yes, what is it, Tommy?" the matron asked quickly but not unkindly.

"W-well, it's just..." Tommy lowered his voice in embarrassment. "I, um, accidently... wet the bed?"

The professor pretended to examine his coat sleeve (he still missed his black suit jacket) as Mrs Medley sighed. "Never mind, but I wish you had told me earlier. Go and see Sarah to sort out your sheets."

"O-okay..." Tommy scurried off to find the other care worker.

Mrs Medley gave the professor an apologetic look, shrugging as if to say "_Kids will be kids." _She led him into her office and gestured for him to take a seat. She sat in the chair behind the desk, facing him.

Knitting her fingers together, the matron began "Now, Mr... Layton, wasn't it? Yesterday I received a call informing me of your request to visit St Obeon's. I was surprised; however, to hear that you are not interested in adoption, nor do you have an occupation remotely connected to childcare. Please, could you clarify the reason for your visit?"

"Of course," Hershel swallowed. "I am looking for a child that arrived at your establishment approximately three months ago, according to Scotland Yard." Perhaps the notion did seem a tad... perverse now that is was out in the open. He hurried to explain "You see, I was with him at the tragic occurrence wherein both of his parents perished. Someone that I loved was also among the casualties that day, therefore I was present." The professor closed his eyes and breathed "Several people had died already. He wanted to join his parents. However, I could not allow him to commit suicide."

"Hmm... And are the two of you related at all?"

"No, but I feel that I may comprehend what he is currently going through. It is my duty to help; I will not believe he is safe until I have seen him with my own eyes."

Mrs Medley had raised an eyebrow but she was nodding. "How... curious; yet it is noble of you to be concerned. Very well, the police approved of your visit and you seem to be reasonable man. I will let you speak with him briefly. He has been through so much; perhaps the poor dear will be able to get some feelings off his chest. His name is Clive—"

There was a hesitant knock at the door to which Mrs Medley replied "Come in!"

The tyke from earlier, Tommy, entered clutching a tray with two mugs of tea.

"Tommy," the matron tsked, rising to take the steaming beverages from him "You shouldn't be carrying heavy trays like this. I hope you didn't use the kettle by yourself..."

"No, Mrs Medley. Sarah helped me," Tommy insisted. The professor thanked him for the tea, grateful for a change of subject.

"Mr Layton said _thank you_, Tommy," Mrs Medley pointed out "You can go and play." However, Tommy remained in the doorway (feeling like a lemon), his blue eyes scanning the room. She tried dismissing him again in a louder tone "Mr Layton and I are having a private discussion. I'm afraid you can't stay in here."

"On the contrary, Mrs Medley," Professor Layton suddenly proclaimed "Someone else has been monitoring our conversation for a while now. And that person... is under your desk."

* * *

Clive gritted his teeth as his hiding place was revealed.

He heard Tommy gasp in awe. "H-how did you know he was there? You must be some kind of super detective..."

"Not quite," Mr Layton chuckled "I simply noticed a small pair of shoes sticking out on my side of the desk." When Clive crawled out from under the table– much to Mrs Medley's astonishment— the man's eyes widened. _"It's you..."_

"C-Clive," Mrs Medley snapped "How dare you come in here without my permission! And it's extremely rude to eavesdrop when other people are talking—!"

"I want to know," Clive completely ignored her; his gaze bored into Mr Layton. His voice was stiff. He demanded answers. "What really happened that day? _Who_ is responsible for my parents' deaths?"

Layton took a moment to compose himself before beginning, gently "First of all, it was an accident. I don't believe that anyone intended for the sheer disaster that the experiment caused."

Clive steamed ahead, thoughtful "The blast came from the labs, right?" He had easily guessed that already. (Where _else _would it have come from?) His family used to live right next to the building where people studied Physics. "Do you know the names of any of the scientists that used to work there?"

"...No." The man hesitated slightly at this question, but Clive was too engaged to notice. "That was what I tried to uncover, in an investigation I undertook following the incident. There wasn't a shred of information to be found. I'm sorry."

Clive felt his angry inquiries deflating. _There was_ _nothing to be found. _He would never know who was to blame; he would never be able to avenge his mother and father.

Mrs Medley looked as shocked as Tommy at the outburst. She coughed "That's enough, Clive. I think we've taken enough of Mr Layton's time."

* * *

Clive left the room wordlessly, and the professor was escorted to the door.

"I'm truly sorry; I never meant to cause so much trouble," Layton apologised. (_What had he done?)_

Mrs Medley shook her head. "It isn't your fault. The horrible ordeal is still very fresh in Clive's mind and he needs time to recover. Perhaps it is best if you wait to see him again."

"_Mr Layton!"_ A voice suddenly shouted. Clive came running to the door, appearing very relieved that the professor hadn't departed yet.

Mrs Medley started concernedly "Clive, you need to calm down. Please go back inside—"

"Mr Layton," Clive interrupted her, avidly addressing the archaeologist "You'll let me know immediately if you learn anything about the explosion, right? You'll come back to tell me..."

Hershel nearly denied this; he _should _have. He himself was only another reminder of that day. It would be for the best if Clive no longer continued to delve on the incident. But the orphaned boy sounded so _hopeful. _The professor didn't want to let him down...

"Of course I'll come back to see you," Hershel found himself saying (He was uncertain whether Mrs Medley would approve of this or not) "When I'm not as busy with work. I'm unsure if I'll be able to discover anything more... But I promise I will visit you again."

And that was how it began.

* * *

_**[[Ok, quite a lot of dialogue during this chapter. Did I make Layton's reasons for wanting to visit Clive valid enough? Or does he just sound like Professor Paedophile? **_

_**I think I replied to every reviewer with an account. But many thanks to the Guests Reviewers as well! And I can't believe the number of followers this story already has :O Doesn't that mean I should be getting like ten reviews? *Pouts and makes huge cute eyes like Puss in Boots.***_

_**Pleeeease review and CHECK OUT MY NEW POLL about PL6 pairings!]] **_


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